


The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive

by mickmillk



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Riding, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickmillk/pseuds/mickmillk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's a little on edge. A little sex goes a long way to relieve some tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first Gallavich fic soooooo. be gentle. special shoutout to kelly and ellie for putting up with reading and re reading and being awesome people.

_"The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they’re only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren’t stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right into through if the skin wasn’t trying to keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side of the theater where the curtain keeps rising. I crawled out the window and ran into the woods. I had to make up all the words myself. The way they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made this place for you. A place for to love me. If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is"_

* * *

 

“S’goin on here?” Mickey tries to ask calmly, pausing at the Gallagher’s front door to watch Kevin and Ian in the living room. He recognizes his own gun in Ian’s hand.

His heart beats a little too quickly in his chest, and the urge to cross the room to punch Kevin in the face is becoming increasingly harder to resist. He kind of always wants to punch Kevin in the face, so that’s nothing new. But the bullshit sped-up heartbeat is something he’s had to force himself to get used to, something that has persisted often within the few weeks of Ian’s diagnosis.

“About to teach Kev how to shoot” Ian replies without looking at him. “Since you let him borrow this without making sure he knew how to use it.”

Mickey isn’t really listening; all he’s thinking is “Get the gun away from Ian. Get the fucking gun away from Ian.”

“I know how to fuckin use it” Kev quips back, reaching for the gun in Ian’s hands without success. Mickey wishes he would just fuckin take it already and leave.

“HEY” Ian says, putting his free hand to Kev’s chest, holding the hand with the gun out of his reach. Mickey’s hand twitches, tempted to take it himself.

“Rule number one about gun safety: never try to take it from the person holding it. Especially when the safety is off, Jackass. And you  _don’t_  know how to use it, V just told Fiona that you almost blew her head off.”

“Bullshit!” Kev has the decency to look guilty. He pauses, and his eyes flick from Mickey to Ian. “She really said that?”

Ian raises his eyebrows, smirks a little.

“Shit,” Kev mumbles. “Well that was ONCE. And it was an accident! Did she tell Fiona that part?”

Ian looks back at Mickey, whos heart is still beating too quickly for his liking, and cocks his head towards Kev as if to say “Can you believe this?”

“Rule number two,” he says loudly, still looking at Mickey. “No blowing your wife’s head off.” Mickey ignores that it’s probably a demand meant for both him and Kev.

“Fuck off,” Kev replies. “C’mon, gimme that. Gotta get back to work to manage the bar AND the whores since your boyfriend is clearly taking the day off.”

Mickey flips Kevin off as he leaves and Ian shakes his head, walking to the kitchen to make a bowl of cereal.

-

Mickey’s heart rate still hasn't calmed, even though he knows Ian is fine. As fine as Ian gets these days, anyway. He feels like he hasn't gotten a good nights sleep in weeks. Too busy staying up, watching Ian sleep like a fuckin creep. Feels real gay about it, tries to stop after the night Ian mumbles “I can feel you watching me.”

His heart felt like it had stopped in his chest, and he felt guilty, like when he would get caught doing something he wasn't supposed to when he was little and Terry would beat the shit out of him.

This is different, he has to remind himself. This isn’t wrong, this is okay.

“Yeah? What makes you think I’m starin at your ginger ass?” he challenged.

Ian smirks and puts his face in the pillow. “Get some sleep Mick,” he responded. “Hate when you worry. Makes me feel like a psycho.” He turns his head again, staring at Mickey.

Mickey doesn’t respond, just brushes his hand against Ian’s forehead and waits for him to fall back asleep before he closes his own eyes and manages to drift, trying to forget the seemingly endless nights of Ian not getting out of bed. Of Ian not talking. Of Ian not smiling, or eating. Of Ian holding a gun to his head, crying and shaking as Mickey attempts to pry it out of his hands. Ian swears he would have never done it, but Mickey will never forget the way it made him feel.

-

“Blew a hole right in the wall, V had the twins in her hands! Says he barely missed her” Ian’s voice brings him back to the present, speaking through a mouth full of cereal.

Mickey bites his nails and watches Ian eat, but doesn’t respond.

“Can’t believe he doesn’t own a fuckin gun,” he says under his breath. “Bar on the Southside and he doesn’t know how to shoot.” He looks up from his bowl and grins at Mickey, but it falters when he realizes Mickey hasn’t really said a word since he got there, and he’s now chewing his lip like he always does when he has something to say but doesn’t actually have the balls to say it.

“What” Ian deadpans, his spoon clinking against the bowl as he lets it go. “Why’re you always lookin at me like that?”

“I don’t” Mickey denies, swallowing heavily. Ian knows anyway, he shouldn’t have to ask.

“Yeah,” Ian insists. “You do. All the time now, actually.” He walks over and stands in front of Mickey, bringing his hand up to pull his lip free from his teeth. Mickey smacks his hand away, glaring defiantly up at his much taller boyfriend.

“Cut it out, man” he says irritated. “I ain’t lookin at you any which way, you had cereal on your face.”

Ian looks at him softly. “Stop it. Please? Whatever it is you’re thinkin about can you just…let it go?”

Mickey shakes his head and steps around Ian, heading towards the stairs. “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin about,” he calls from behind him.

-

Ian follows him upstairs, because of course he does. Mickey can hear the footsteps behind him. Ignores them. He heads for the bathroom, the one place he knows Ian won’t follow him. Won’t question him. Won’t bring up shit he really doesn’t want to fuckin talk about.

He sits down on the toilet. Breathes a little. Finds out he was wrong about Ian, that there actually isn’t a place he won’t follow him, because the bathroom door slams open and he invites himself in.

“Christ, Gallagher!” he yells. “Can I take a fuckin shit without you trying to hold my hand?”

Ian’s eyes flick from his face to the toilet where Mickey sits, back to his face again.

“You usually shit with your pants on?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.

Mickey stands and grabs the door, trying to close it, but Ian’s foot slides across the floor to stop it.

“Come on man, fuck off” Mickey sighs, turning around to stand over the sink. He braces his hands on either side and lowers his head, avoiding Ian’s reflection behind him in the mirror.

It’s silent for a while, and Mickey finally looks up, hoping Ian is gone by now even though he knows he isn’t. His eyes lock on Ian’s, and he wants to look away, but he can’t. His gaze is too powerful, makes Mickey want to crawl out of his skin, start writing shitty poetry about his eyes or something. If he wasn’t so annoyed, or stressed out, or whatever the fuck he was feeling, he would kiss Ian right now. Partly because he wants to, but mostly to wipe that sad fuckin look off his face. It’s kinda killing him.

“When are you gonna stop tip toeing around me,” Ian asks quietly.

Mickey tenses, letting out a humorless, breathy laugh. He knows better, knows that Ian isn’t gonna let this go without a fight, or without making him say some sappy shit that only Ian can force out of him. Persistent little fucker. Big fucker, whatever. He hates him for it almost as much as he loves him for it.

“Would you cut the fuckin dramatics,” he asks, looking down again.

“I mean it,” Ian says darkly, and Mickey smirks into the sink.

He’s angry.

Mickey feels relieved.

This depression shit is not his forte. Anger, Mickey can handle.

He’s still smirking when he turns around, mimicking Ian’s stance with his eyebrows raised.

“I’m not fuckin around, Mick. This shit stops. I’m not stupid, alright?”

“Yeah well…could’ve fuckin fooled me,” Mickey replies angrily, relief forgotten. Really it’s him who feels stupid, under the impression that all the hovering he’s been doing for the past few weeks has gone unnoticed. The last thing he wants is that shoved in his face, a reminder that this whole situation is beyond his control and that no matter which angle he takes at this, he can’t win.

“No one buys as much hair gel as you do,” Ian snaps. “Or as many boxes of condoms as you do. We have enough, and I found your stupid secret stash of hair gel, you don’t need anymore.

When Mickey doesn’t bother denying it, just glares with his jaw set, Ian continues.

“Stop with the excuses, or pretending you need to buy that shit just so you can follow me to the drug store to make sure I’m filling my prescription. Give that money to Svetlana, buy your kid some diapers or something productive just  _get the fuck off my back_.”

Mickey can’t help it, kinda hates him a little for that last dig, ignoring the sting that comes with Ian shoving a life he didn’t choose into his face. A life he’s trying to improve, by making sure Ian is okay and by worrying about him as much as he fuckin does. He wants Mickey to care, he doesn’t want Mickey to care, what the fuck is it? It’s none of his fuckin business how much hair gel he buys, even if that is the excuse he uses to follow Ian to the store, and it’s none of his fuckin business whether or not he buys diapers for the stupid fuckin kid he doesn’t want.

Ian knows these are fighting words.

And if Ian wants a fight, a fight is what he’s going to get.

“You tryin to tell me what to do right now, firecrotch?” He almost whispers, stepping into Ian’s space. “Think that’s wise of you?”

Ian’s cheeks are flushed, and his fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles are turning white, but he doesn’t back down, and Mickey never expected him to. Hopes he wouldn’t.

When he doesn’t say anything, Mickey snorts through his nose and shoves past him, causing Ian to stumble a little, pissing him off a lot. “That’s what I thought,” Mickey adds, walking into Ian’s room to wait.

-

He’s barely made it to the middle of the room when there’s a hand on his shoulder, roughly spinning him around.

“Yeah,” Ian nods, letting go of him. “Yeah I am telling you what to do. There a fuckin problem with that?”

Mickey loves him so much he feels violent with it, never knows how to say it, wants to really show him, but channels it into anger instead. It’s what he knows best, as familiar to him as the Milkovich blood flowing through his veins.

He ends up shoving Ian into the dresser.

“Wanna run that by me again?” His voice is low, husky, and Ian’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue as it darts out to wet his bottom lip.

He’s ready for it when Ian shoves him back.

Mickey responds with a right hook to the side of Ian’s face and then Ian’s hands are tangled in Mickey’s shirt, drawing him forward to press his mouth to his own.

-

It’s almost painful, is the thing.

Too much.

Too much tongue and too much blood and teeth but not enough and Mickey is on fire, wants to swallow Ian whole so he feels it too, so he’s not left alone with it. Ian bites down hard on his lip and laughs into his mouth when Mickey makes a sound of hurt protest, and he’s so fucking gone for his red-head that he wants to cry, or scream, or do things like come out of the closet to a bar full of homophobic Nazis again and again and again, as long as he can have this, and have it forever.

“Missed this,” Ian mumbles against his mouth, like he’s reading his mind.

They break apart only to strip each other of their shirts, tossing them to the floor before coming back together again. Mickey lets out a laugh of disbelief as Ian trails kisses along his jaw, sucks bruises into his collarbone as he pushes Mickey onto the bed.

“The fuck you talkin about” Mickey questions, breathless. “See you every day.”

But he knows. He’s missed Ian, too. Doesn’t know how to say it, so he roams his hands down Ian’s naked back instead, digging his nails in, smirking when he hears Ian hiss against his neck.

Ian grinds his hips down against Mickey, brushing their cocks together, feeling Mickey grow harder in his jeans, moving his hips up to meet Ian’s. He sees the purple mark on his collar bone shining bright like a fucking comet against his pale skin and leans in to suck it slowly, leading his tongue up towards Mickey’s ear where he starts to nibble his lobe.

“Missed you not treating me like I’m made of glass” he mumbles into Mickey’s skin, and moans when Mickey reaches down to palm him through his jeans.

“The fuck do you want from me, Gallagher,” he wonders aloud as he works on Ian’s belt buckle. “Christ, get these stupid fuckin things off.”

Ian laughs, sits up and helps, discarding his jeans and his boxers before doing the same for Mickey, resuming his position.

Mickey wishes Ian wouldn’t stare at him the way he is now, like he can see through every wall he puts up and doesn’t hate it, but likes what he sees. Loves it, even. He tenses as Ian reaches his hand out to lightly stroke his face.

“Just want you,” he breathes, and leans in to kiss him, making fireworks explode behind Mickey’s eyes.

And Mickey doesn’t understand because Ian  _has him_ , wonders how he can’t see that. Has him wholly and fully, no part of him that doesn’t have Ian’s name permanently etched into it. His heart and his mouth and his tongue…his whole body belongs to the boy above him.

It hurts to think about, so he doesn’t.

Just let’s Ian kiss him until he feels so much love and adoration pouring into his mouth that he can’t take it anymore, flips him over so he’s on top, doesn’t have to deal with it.

He straddles him, grinds hard against him until Ian is whimpering, grasping Mickey’s hips so hard that it hurts, but it feels so good, too good to stop even though he knows he has to soon or he’s going to come all over the both of them.

He reaches between them to grasp both of their cocks, pumping them quickly, looking up to see Ian with his head thrown back, watching his adams apple straining against the skin as he swallows.

He wants to lick it, so he does. Leans forward to trail his tongue up Ian’s neck, his moans vibrating into his mouth.

Ian reaches his hand down to help and Mickey bats it away, stutters out a “Don’t…let me. Wanna do this for you.” Because he does. He wants to make Ian feel good. Always wants to make him feel good.

Ian whines low in his throat, bringing his head up to look at Mickey. “Don’t wanna come yet,” he pants. “Wanna...inside you.”

Mickey curses quietly, leaning up so his knees are on either side of Ian’s thighs. When Ian moves to turn Mickey over, he pushes him back down, forcing him to stay there.

Ian looks confused. “You don’t want-“

“I want you to fuckin relax and let me take care of you,” Mickey interrupts.

He switches from confused to bashful, with those stupid fuckin puppy eyes Mickey never stops thinking about. He wants to roll his own eyes. Doesn’t. Takes two fingers and taps them against Ian’s mouth.

“Suck,” he commands. Ian raises his eyebrows but takes Mickey’s hand and pushes his fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and between, succeeding in getting them properly lubricated and getting Mickey impossibly harder.

“Don’t have to be so good at it,” Mickey mumbles, removing his fingers from Ian’s mouth to reach behind and open himself up.

Ian’s cock is like a bar of steel underneath him, subconsciously grinding against Mickey to relieve some friction as he watches his boyfriend touch himself on top of him.

He reaches his hand up to touch Mickey’s cock, and Mickey stops his movements, raising his eyebrows as a warning.

“No touching,” he says simply, before he rocks back onto his hand with a small groan.

Ian bites his lip. “Come on, Mick,” he whines, grabbing Mickey’s hips with so much pressure that the skin under his fingers turns impossibly whiter. “Want you, want it so bad c’mon.”

Mickey adds a third finger and scissors them as deep as he can with the awkward angle, and when he knows he’s ready, leans down to kiss Ian as he lowers himself down onto his cock.

It’s less of a kiss and more of an open mouth touch, breathing in each other’s air with their foreheads pressed together as Mickey fills himself completely, feeling his ass meet Ian’s thighs.

He sits for a second, adjusting, but Ian is impatient.

“Move, Mick,” he groans, trying to push up into him.

“Shut it, firecrotch,” he growls, and slides off until just the tip of Ian is at his entrance before he slams himself down again, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as Ian lets out a guttural noise.

He braces his hand on the wall beside the bed, his other hand on Ian’s chest, and then he starts to move.

Ian meets him thrust for thrust, his legs bent, feet planted on the bed. He loves Mickey’s ass, and Mickey knows this, so he doesn’t give Ian shit when he cups it with both hands to bring him down harder, or smacks it occasionally, adding to the slapping noise his ass makes when it hits Ian’s thighs over, and over again.

Mickey loves it anyway, loves the bruises his fingerprints leave behind, like he’s claiming him.

And right now it seems like Ian really wants to claim him.

He knows this was supposed to be about making Ian feel good, but now it’s less like Mickey is riding him and more like Ian is fucking up into him so he gives up. Leans forward with both his hands on Ian’s chest and just  _takes it_ , his cock disappearing inside him so fast it’s like a blur.

He’s letting out noises that are embarrassing, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Ian is fucking him so hard that he knows he’s going to come just like this, without being touched.

“Fucking – fuck, feels so good Mick,” Ian grunts. “So tight.”

“Yeah,” Mickey whispers, biting off a moan as Ian hits a spot inside of him that makes him see stars.

“Right there,” he manages, and Ian slows, thrusting deliberately harder to hit that spot again.

Mickey starts to grind in circles, starts to ride him a little again, doesn’t want to come until he feels Ian finish inside of him. Tells him that, feels Ian’s thrusts stutter as he grabs onto Mickey’s ass and forcibly slides him up and down his cock.

“Come on, Mickey,” Ian says. “Wanna see you come, wanna watch you..”

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, Ian’s words going straight to his cock, leaking so much precum that it’s leaving a sticky pool on Ian’s stomach.

Ian grunts and slams himself up into Mickey once, twice, before Mickey is coming with a shout, white streaks spraying up Ian’s torso, cock untouched.

He clenches around Ian once he manages to come back down to earth, and makes sure he keeps his eyes open so he can see his face when he comes inside of him.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian pants, and Mickey smiles lazily down at him, runs his fingers through his own mess on Ian’s stomach and sticks them in Ian’s mouth, who closes his eyes and moans around his fingers.

“M’gonna – mmm fuck,” Ian cries, biting down on Mickey’s fingers as he meets him with two more thrusts before spilling inside him in long, hot spurts.

-

Mickey’s grinding a little still, helping Ian ride out his orgasm, too tired to do anything else, and Ian chuckles through the haze, weakly thrusting, hands sliding off Mickey’s waist to flop to the bed beside him.

Mickey’s heart clenches at the sight of him, Ian in his blissed out, post coital heaven with his stupid grin and messy hair. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, wondering when he turned into such a fuckin sap, though he’s not sure if he completely hates it.

He rolls off Ian’s softening erection and sits up to grab a pack of smokes from the dresser, feeling Ian trace light circles on his back with the tips of his fingers. It feels nice, so he doesn’t stop it, just lights a cigarette to keep something in his mouth so he doesn’t open it and say something stupid like he loves him or whatever.

Ian grabs him by the waist and drags him back into bed, forcing Mickey to be the small spoon, and Mickey tries to seem annoyed by it but he’s just too tired.

So he grins to himself around his cigarette, allowing Ian to snuggle in close, letting out a sigh of contentment as he feels Ian’s mouth press soft kisses to the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” Ian whispers, and tightens his hold around his little spoon.

“You did most of the work,” Mickey admits, reaching his arm off the side of the bed to drop his cigarette into the ash tray on the floor. “Think I should be the one thankin you.”

He feels Ian smile into his neck.

“I meant for stickin around,” he clarifies. “Takin care of me and stuff.”

Mickey pauses, not sure how to respond.

He doesn’t want Ian thanking him, he just wants him to be happy. And he knows that he makes Ian happy, he’s said it a thousand times. Which means Mickey isn’t going anywhere. He’s said that a thousand times, too.

He grabs Ian’s hand and laces their fingers together, wrapping him tighter around his body.

“I ain’t goin anywhere,” he promises, making it a thousand and one.

And he means it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it. find me on tumblr! hesfuckingfamily.tumblr.com


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